


The Tragedy at Whitehaven Mansions

by shaitarn



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28323024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaitarn/pseuds/shaitarn
Summary: The world's greatest detective is murdered; can Captain Hastings, with help from Miss Lemon and Chief Inspector Japp, bring the killer to justice?
Relationships: Arthur Hastings/Felicity Lemon
Kudos: 4





	1. Prologue

It was never my intention to write the tale of my last adventure with my dear friend Poirot, particularly as it contains details that may well see me sent to the gallows should it ever come before the eyes of the law. I suppose in the end it was habit and the perverse desire to leave a clear record of events that persuaded me to pick up my pen once more.

I did suggest omitting or changing a few details to Miss Lemon – protecting the innocent, and so forth – but she simply gave me one of her stern looks and said “The full truth, Captain Hastings!” and so I have, with some slight reluctance, acquiesced to her words.

I hope whoever may eventually read this tale understands that sometimes the law and justice do not walk hand in hand. If not – well, we have made our choice and will face the ultimate justice in the hour of our deaths.

I offer no apologies. I have no regrets.

Captain Arthur Hastings, London, 1939.


	2. Chapter 1

It was the week before Christmas, always a quiet time for Poirot workwise. I fancied it was because people were so taken with the spirit of the season, but Poirot scoffed at this idea. “Always you are the romantic, Hastings,” he would say and point out with a certain grim relish the spike in the number of cases he received in the first weeks of the new year. I wasn’t terribly keen on celebrating the season and hadn’t been since my first Christmas in the trenches, but I always helped Poirot with the decorations – the string of cards, the wreaths of holly and red ribbon, the delicate carved figures of the nativity scene displayed on the side (one of the few items he’d saved from his home and brought into exile with him); I think I was the only person who could deal with his constant fractional adjustments and re-adjustments until he pronounced himself satisfied.

As there was no member of my family I wished to spend Christmas with (with the possible exception of my younger sister Laura, and she was spending the holiday period on one of her archaeological digs in Egypt) and I had no desire to attend a shoot I’d been invited to in Norfolk (the hall where the shoot was taking place was one of the coldest, most draughtiest buildings I’d ever had the misfortune to stay in), I was spending only my second Christmas with Poirot. He grumbled so much about my being in the way that I was actually quite hurt and considered clearing out and spending the holiday in my own flat. But Miss Lemon assured me his complaints were all an act. “He’s actually looking forward to it.” She told me with one of her small smiles. “I heard him arguing with the butcher the other day, insisting the meat ‘must be just so, for _mon cher ami_ Hastings’.”

My gratitude and amusement at her imitation of Poirot made me smile. We were in her office, Miss Lemon at her typewriter, me leaning against the cabinet housing the bulk of her elegant and incomprehensible filing system. “Are you spending the holiday with anyone, Miss Lemon?” I asked, and then winced inwardly at my own tactlessness.

Miss Lemon didn’t seem to notice the awkwardness of my words. “I shall be spending a couple of days with my sister and her family,” She said. “Mister Poirot has given me a week and a half off on full pay.”

“I say! That was generous of him.”

“Yes. Almost too generous I should say.” She frowned slightly. “I can’t imagine what I should do with myself for that long. I might suggest coming back earlier.”

“Maybe you could come and visit us.” I suggested. “By the way-” I lowered my voice slightly, “could you do me a favour, Miss Lemon?”

“I should imagine so.” She looked at me expectantly.

“Well, I haven’t brought Poirot a present yet-” 

She raised her eyebrows at me. “You’re leaving it a little late, Captain Hastings. It’s the 23rd tomorrow.”

“I know, but I wondered if you’d mind helping me find a decent present for him. I’d hate to get something he couldn’t bear.” Considering one of my previous gifts of a stuffed cayman had ended up in the box room, I wasn’t at all confident of my ability to buy something he’d like.

She smiled. “I have a half day tomorrow. Will tomorrow afternoon suit you?”

I gave her a smile in response. “Absolutely. And thank you.”

***

“I’ll be going now then, Mister Poirot.”

He glanced up at her, smiling. “ _Oui. Au revoir,_ Miss Lemon.”

“Goodbye, Mister Poirot; Captain Hastings.”

“Goodbye, Miss Lemon.” I caught her eye and couldn’t help but grin as I spoke. She gave a small cough to hide her own amusement. Tricking Poirot, even in such a small, benign way, had both of us feeling like mischievous schoolchildren. I waited for about ten minutes or so after she’d gone before I stood up and stretched. “I’m just heading out for a spell, Poirot.” I said.

He glanced up at me. “You desire the fresh air, _mon ami_?”

“Something like that.” I agreed. “Can I get you anything?”

“ _Non, merci._ I have all I want. You will return in time for tea, yes?”

“Oh yes; absolutely.”

“ _Bon._ ” He smiled. “I will see you soon then, Hastings.”

***

Miss Lemon proved to be as capable at suggesting suitable presents as she was at running her office, and at the end of two hours I had three presents – a box of Belgium chocolates, a pair of grey gloves of fine leather and my personal favourite, a pair of silver and onyx cufflinks that we both agreed were modestly stylish enough for Poirot to wear.

I was so grateful for her help that I insisted on taking her to a tea house as a small thank you. Our conversation turned naturally enough to Christmases we’d experienced in the past. Miss Lemon asked me about the famous Christmas truce and football match between the British and German soldiers in 1914, and I confirmed that it had really happened and that I’d been there, although at the time I’d been a new arrival – one of ‘Kitchener’s Mob’ as we were known, a recently commissioned subaltern. I didn’t tell her the aftermath of that romantic story – the army brass had been furious at the truce and the unwillingness to resume hostilities and had threatened that if any man refused to continue fighting he risked being court-martialled for treason.

Part-way through our reminisces Miss Lemon suddenly frowned. “Blast,” she muttered.

“What’s wrong?”

“I forgot to collect some letters I meant to post.” She said, still frowning. “Which means they may not be dealt with until after Christmas. And one was a bill that needed paying.” She sighed with annoyance; Miss Lemon seemed to expect perfection from herself even more than Poirot did. “I shall have to apologise to Mister Poirot in the morning.”

“I can give you a lift back to Whitehaven Mansions.” I offered. “I’m returning there in any case.”

Her frown cleared and she gave me a look of gratitude. “If you’re sure you don’t mind, Captain Hastings.”

“Of course not.” I reassured her with a smile.

***

The sun had been setting when we had finished shopping and though it was still early – not yet five o’clock – it was full dark by the time we left the tea house. Poirot had often commented that he was glad the dangerous conditions made my driving ‘safer’ – by which he meant slower – in the winter, though he often complained bitterly that he was sure it was the cold wind of travelling in the Lagonda that gave him colds. I was relieved that Miss Lemon didn’t appear to have any such concerns. Maybe she simply found the chill bracing, as I did myself.

We were almost at Whitehaven Mansions when I heard the screech of tyres on the tarmac, and a car roared up out of the darkness, coming around the corner much too fast. I was forced to swerve to avoid a collision, driving the Lagonda up over the kerb and knocking over a couple of bins, and only received the impression that it was a red car of some kind, possibly an Austin. “Blasted maniac!” I snapped, and then looked at my passenger. “Are you alright, Miss Lemon?”

She drew in a sharp breath and nodded. “Just startled, Captain Hastings. They were driving like lunatics.”

“Yes, they were.” I agreed as I restarted the car. Thankfully she hadn’t been damaged and responded eagerly enough that I was soon pulling up in my usual parking spot outside Whitehaven Mansions.

It may just be hindsight, but I’m sure that I had a feeling of something being vaguely wrong from the moment we entered the silent vestibule of the block. I quickened my pace as we took the stairs to Poirot’s apartment until Miss Lemon was having to trot to keep up with me.

The eerie sense of unease grew when I saw Poirot’s apartment; the door was very slightly ajar. My little friend was as neat as a cat, and wouldn’t leave a door open any more than he would leave a spot of oil untreated on his suit. The hairs at the back of my neck prickled, and I made a vague sort of ‘wait here’ gesture to Miss Lemon as I moved to the flat and eased the door open. Inside it was silent and dark, the only light coming from one of the lamps in the sitting room that doubled as Poirot’s office, merely a bright blurred shape behind the mostly closed glass doors.

My palm was itching for the weight of a gun as I stepped quietly into the hallway. I eased one of Poirot’s sticks from the stand by the door with a vague idea of using it as a weapon. “Poirot?” I said softly and waited for a response, happy to appear foolish if only my friend would appear and ask me what I was doing.

There was no answer. I half-turned so my back was against the wall and took silent foot-steps down the hallway. I used the stick to push open the doors of the rooms as I passed – the spare room I slept in when I stayed over, Miss Lemon’s office, the bathroom – all were dark, silent and empty.

I was dimly aware of Miss Lemon following slowly behind me, and still praying that the sick feeling of unease was purely my imagination, I pushed open the glass doors of Poirot’s office.

The desk, the sofa I’d been sprawled on earlier, the wreaths on the wall and the figures of the nativity – all these stood as normal as they had done for the last few evenings. How much more terrible, then, in this scene of normality, to see my friend stretched out on the floor, the pristine white of his shirt dyed crimson with his own blood?

“Poirot!” I screamed. I don’t recall dropping the stick or leaping to his side, I was just suddenly on my knees beside him, lifting him, cradling him in my arms. He drew a shaky breath, and his dark eyes opened a fraction. “ _Mon cher_ Hastings.” He whispered, his voice a dry rasp.

“Captain Hastings.” Miss Lemon said brokenly from behind me.

“Get the doctor. Now.” I ordered without taking my eyes off my friend. I took one of his hands in mine, clutched it. “I’m here, old man.” I assured him. “Hold on, the doctor’s on his way.”

He made a move as though to shake his head. “The desk, _mon ami_.”

“The desk?” I repeated blankly. “What about it?”

“The desk!” He said with more force.

Afraid of his agitation, I agreed “The desk. Yes, the desk.”

His face moved in what might have been an attempt at a smile. He raised the hand I held to his face, and I felt his lips brush my knuckles as though it was the hand of some young mademoiselle he’d just been presented to. “ _Mon cher_ Hastings.” He repeated in that breathy whisper. “We have had the good hunting, _mon ami_.”

“We will have again.” I told him. On some deep subconscious level I knew I was lying; his face had taken on a waxy pallor I’d seen before on the faces of men I’d served with during the war – that look spoke of death. _Don’t leave me!_ I thought. I wanted to scream it at him, but I couldn’t force the words out, simply held him tightly as though I could somehow hold him to life.

“ _Mon cher_ Arthur.” He whispered; he took a rasping breath…

…And I _felt_ the life go out of him with the soft exhalation of that breath.

I’m not sure how long I remained kneeling on the floor holding him before Miss Lemon spoke from behind me. “Captain Hastings, the doctor’s here.”

I didn’t move. I felt, stupidly, that if I continued to hold him it would somehow be alright, this tragedy could be averted. If I let him go, it would all become real.

“Captain Hastings.” She repeated firmly. I felt her hand on my shoulder and reluctantly let my friend go. I shuffled back as the doctor took my place at his side, feeling numb, knowing there was nothing he could do.


End file.
